Bittersweet weirdness

Three hours. That’s how long the no-crying promise lasted. It can’t be helped; it’s something I have to do. The pain is too much. It’s a dull constant pain, not the screaming throbbing kind. It went away for a little while, lost among unrelated conversations about Joey and his nonchalance, hunger strikes, “basically lots of”, doing things WITH people or FOR, figuring out the best time in the year, trying to describe a philosophical self with words so apt that they wouldn't come easily, trying to lie straight facedly like Harry, chocolate wrappers in pockets or dustbins, pearls of "advice" and building shrines in memory of the other. Laughter pushed it out – inappropriate laughter for the moment we were in, yet so appropriate because of who we are. I see that now, vaguely. But now it’s back, that pain. It hurts. It’s bound to, but it shouldn’t be so awful. It wasn’t that bad really, today. It was strangely NICE. And the pain is bittersweet. It has to be – it’s born out of complete agreement and yet, utter lack of understanding. Why is it so half and half?

Chocolate is not helping. There is already too much in my system from the past week, for it to satisfy any sort of craving. Stupid bags of chocolate from the last night out shopping in Edinburgh. Breathing helps, but it’s coming out in rasps because of the crying. Which is fine, because trying to control it gives me something to do. Typing helps, especially LOUDLY while banging on the keyboard. Hitting him and calling him names helped too, but then that may have to do with the inevitable laughter that followed. Is it weird, that laughter? It didn’t feel all that weird, and that felt weirder. Light-hearted, nonsensical banter – that was the essence wasn’t it? Hell yeah, it was. It was the friggin definition. It had vanished for a while, but now it’s back. Yay. But is it weird that it returned in such a twisted situation?

Diaryface was right, as she always is – it IS a rite of passage. It happened to me just today, and I really didn’t expect it to happen so soon after that particular mail she sent – like an omen, almost. Sshh, I’m not supposed to talk like that. But then, I’m cheating on the no-crying promise, why not on this one too?

I can’t concentrate. I think I’m rambling, but I can’t be sure because I can’t concentrate. This is it. What? I said, this is it. WHAT is it? THIS, yes, this is it. It doesn’t have to be, but it is. And, strangely enough, it feels like even before the beginning. That IS weird, isn’t it? But it doesn’t FEEL weird. It feels so right and so horribly wrong. I don’t know how and what to feel. GO. I’m sick of you. Yet, you’re right, I’m not. How CAN I be, you semi-good looking North Carolinian Gulfy asshole? “HEY! Watch it. You’re not allowed to say asshole anymore.”

For a comfort level that is one of it’s kind, for crying as an energy releaser, for the best conversation we've had in over a month, for random statements filled with utter time-pass, for rumbling tummies, for something that I knew I could never live up to, for excessive drinking of water, for a confused secret that will be safe no matter what the bribe or bet – I will remember today.